


The Ringtone.

by consultingadler



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, I'm really sorry, Implied Sexual Content, Lingerie, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2018-04-13 12:48:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4522662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consultingadler/pseuds/consultingadler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amidst several nights of passion, Irene discovers something that really gets Sherlock riled up...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ringtone.

It was their third night together. Sherlock was dead – supposedly – and although there was still work to be done, men to battle, he made time to indulge himself in the woman, formally known as Irene Adler.

They'd had two nights of passion. Though, the term 'night' had to be used lightly. It was more like two days of passion, almost non-stop, though there were times where they just lay there, his large arms around her small form and her spine firm against his chest. What was it that she had called it? Spooning? He didn't quite understand how, in any way, the position resembled spoons but he didn't bring this up because it would ruin the moment (she'd told him to stop doing that).

Despite the misunderstanding of the term, he found himself enjoying these moments. The sex was good, beyond it even, but just holding her, feeling the woman there... he had never been more content in his life. In the dull light of their first evening together, he'd found himself unable to sleep due to the fact she was nuzzled into him, face buried in his chest, and in this position he could feel her soft breath upon his skin. The deep inhales and exhales were soothing to him, to know that Irene was here and she was safe – something he often worried about whilst they were apart.

On their second evening, he slept.

On their third, he didn't get the chance. Sherlock was laid upon the bed, a feathered pillow beneath his head and his lips knotted in a tight purse as he stared at the en-suite bathroom door. The Woman had informed him of a surprise. There had been several of these throughout his stay, but she had promised this topped the lot and he wasn't allowed to move until she was ready.  
It had been twenty seven minutes, still no sign of her.

He could hear the patter of her bare feet against the tiled flooring in the bathroom, a gentle huff every so often and the occasional pang of fabric against skin. From the list he had in his head, he could only assume her surprise included lingerie and about a minute of complaining on how long it took her to get ready. Not that he minded that, he rather enjoyed seeing her frustrated (she didn't like that too much.)

When the bathroom door handle finally wiggled, his alert eyes darted to the door again and subconsciously he leaned forward in anticipation. Yes, he'd seen Irene naked/half-naked multiple times but every time he found himself overwhelmed with the woman. His woman. She was a work of art, pleasant to eye, he could stare at her for hours if the opportunity arose.

“Close your eyes,” her soft, but equally as firm, voice came from the other side of the cheap wood and he did as told. With this, the door opened with an unpleasant creak and he heard her weight shift into the room. “Now, open.”

They opened, and immediately he was smirking.

It was lingerie, at he had previous concluded. A black, lace piece, barely covering her porcelain skin, but he wasn't about to complain. She was, for lack of a better word, beautiful. When she drifted toward the bed he took a sharp intake of breath and parted his lips in speech, wanting to tell her to come closer, to let him kiss her-

His thoughts, were very rudely erupted. Irene's lips quivered and he wondered if he'd done something wrong, if he'd upset her... but then he noticed it wasn't in sadness, but it actually looked like she were about to burst into laughter. His brows knitted, again, and suddenly he caught on.

“No, not again-” he begged, but it was too late. His phone, that had sat on the bedside table next to him, suddenly flashed in alert, and then it happened.

“Just DO IT.” Shia Labeouf's voice filled the room and the detective's face twisted into a grimace. Seven times, seven times she'd used the so-called 'joke, and every single time she'd burst into laughter, almost keeling over. Was this going to be it for them? Every time they had sex was that man's terrifying yell going to inform him to 'do' her?... Dear, God.

Silently, Sherlock Holmes damned the internet... silently, he damned Shia Lebeouf.

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, here it is then. My first one shot, and first post on this site! I'd like to apologise, to everyone, to everything. Mostly to my cat, who sat beside me whilst I wrote this and had to listen to me laughing every minute. I'm so sorry, Phoebe.


End file.
